


Sky's Tumblin' Down

by Hyoushin



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 1872
Genre: 1872, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Feels, M/M, Pining, Tragedy, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12544708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: This time, he is where he chose to be, in the middle of nowhere.





	Sky's Tumblin' Down

It could have been a very human, very trite beginning, as far as beginnings go. But Tony Stark intends his arrival to be an ending instead of a beginning, and thus, all the possibilities connected to him tense and blur. Nothing ever works as human arrogance might expect, however, for it is the unexpected that will deflate his coveted ending, mutate it into a divergence unwanted until the instant he begins to _want_ with an intensity heretofore unknown to him.

And so, he steps off the train to be hit with the pressure of an all-encompassing heat. Dust gathers before his eyes, rises to sneak into the threads of his apparel, coating his underclothes, his skin, his hair, and soon, every inch of his soul. Tony stands there, upon the solitude of an outsider, a pair of leather valises bracketing his frame. Perhaps it should be odd, he muses, how he doesn’t feel stranded or how he doesn’t miss the scraps of life he abandoned.

A folded map is in his breast pocket, and underlined with red ink, is the general route towards _nowhere_. In what must be the ends of the earth, a godforsaken town exists. Timely. The nigh emptiness of the station doesn’t surprise him. The train waits for no one though. Its whistle pierces the air; the steam it spouts mingles with the hot wind as it jerks forward. The train departs, a mirage distorting its body into the distance, and Tony knows not when it will return, or if it will at all.

This time, he is where he chose to be, in the middle of nowhere.

 

The unexpected takes the shape of a star, of blue and blond, a baritone and artless benevolence _._

Once in motion, it becomes impossible to stop their acquaintance from going onwards. In a small town with a limited number of inhabitants, the corners to hide are nearly non-existent. The Sheriff makes it his business to know everyone. Therefore, usually beneath the sallow lighting of the saloon, he persists. His gaze roves over the crowd, spots him in his habitual seat, strides towards the counter, and smuggles out from brusque exchanges to lengthy talks during not so unpleasant nights.

“Timely doesn’t drag in outsiders, it shelters newcomers,” Sheriff Rogers comments in one instance where Tony familiarized himself with a jail cell, “Why don’t you settle already?”

Tony makes as though he was deafened by liquor. But before long, he finds a place he can call his abode, a place to fix and restore because that’s a habit he can’t kick out of himself it seems, no matter what happens. Most days he tries to consume his agonies and misfortunes with the burn of whiskey, but on the ones in which he doesn’t, the forge lures him in and he relents, working with heat and metal through effort suffused in sweat.

Tonight, though, tonight the sky’s tumbling down, the stars roll and crumble while the town’s locked in an endless _whirlwind._ A strong arm tightens around his waist, prevents his fall, forces him to keep on going; his mouth opens, attempts to utter his gratitude, but nothing comes out. Eventually, however, something garbled that might have been a song topples from his lips, and he hears a snort, then a full chuckle.

“Look at you, Stark, you even make drunken singing seem charming.”

Tony feels somnolence slowly stealing him away, and almost loses the memory of a body supporting his, emitting a different but more than longed-for warmth. A wide palm slips into his jacket, brushing the cotton shirt he wears as it finds what it was searching.  The desire to lean forwards lacks logic or comprehension but so does his current state. His brow meets solid muscle and a star digs into his chest.

The whine of an old wooden door, heels across floorboards, and then, an instinctive familiarity in the manner his limbs are arranged against the softness of a bed. On the morn, Tony will be unable to recall who divested him of his jacket, his belt, and his shoes, but his unconscious will retain a deep voice murmuring verses unsung.

 

Word spreads about his ability and ingenuity when it isn’t hampered by liquid oblivion. Then, the dark attached to his last name reaches him, pervading the town for a spell. Sheriff Rogers is always within sight, always near, even when it isn’t required.

Tony sings, shameless and out loud, below a red starry sky, sprawled upon a set of steps, a few feet away from a fastened window. A knee tips over a half-empty bottle, it spins and bowls over its brethren. The resulting smash is attenuated by the slide of a tenor into a chorus. The folk tune he vocalizes manages to be melodic, for once, to the one attentive ear, for the window is unfastened and so it remains thereon.

Unless the dust and the dirt gobble him up, nothing would halt a reprise. Tonight is another insomniac sort of night, so he lingers outside until the yellow light beyond the window flickers out.

He drowses amid the gloom and the chill, but he is aware of being hauled to his feet, guided to his room by an honest blue. His body goes pliant and allows what isn’t allowed under the sun. His head catches a broad shoulder, a star carves a home within his chest, his back sinks into his mattress, and another presence accompanies him until the tallow runs out. 

Night terrors transition into dreams bursting with sensations—a gentle heat nearby, a clean scent, fingers through his hair, brief whispered assurances.

When he wakes, he encounters a half-full glass of water and a Sheriff’s star resting on the nightstand.

The minute stirrings of a smile startle him for a moment. Tony blinks, stares at the star, and opts to give it a polish.

With reluctance, he returns the item when they happen to be alone in his forge. It feels as though a secret, somehow, is cradled in between their hands. 

 

Devils and specters induce him to stray once more, and in this occasion, it costs him the star in his heart. It is wrenched out, leaves a hole, deep and plain for everyone to note. There is no one else to impede his drowning now and it is fine that way, he supposes, for nothing of value ever lasts.  As much as he tries, he can never forget, though. Iterating themselves in his mind are all the daydreams and yearnings stuck in a twilit limbo.

He looks back and sees the blood, feels the wrath, surrenders himself to the helplessness, lets his thoughts be corroded by guilt. Reality and wakefulness warp into a well-deserved curse. Tony develops a novel thirst for sleep, a never-ending sleep. The shots he fired, the ones headed his way, the one bullet he should have averted—it’s a farrago of past and present torments and none of them are delible—whatever is imbibed fails, but then, the solution is a fortune on a slip of paper and he laughs at the ludicrousness that colors his life.

The smithy is alight night and day. He is at home with this heat; it dries him, animates him. An unshakable purpose impels him to design, to create, to realize an indestructible man, someone who can adopt a forgotten duty and bear a sense of justice.

Tony does something he doesn’t do: he prays over and over to what may be listening, that he lives and lives till he can _avenge_.

 

A precise shot. A malfunction. And it’s not the armor, Tony grumbles to himself, but the wearer. A cloudless sky spirals before him after his head collides with metal. His tongue tastes iron and disorientation reduces smoke and gunfire to a mere backdrop. He has been hoping this could be a one-way ticket.

A shadow overspreads his armor. It turns into a hooded figure as they crouch beside him. A gloved hand removes his helmet and Tony gazes into blue, mesmerizing _blue_ shaded by long bangs of blond. “Hey, Sheriff,” he drawls, as though they weren’t in the midst of a battlefield, “what you doing here?”

“Watching how you take on these Roxxon bastards, that’s what,” Steve grins. “You haven’t ever been alone.”

The statement subdues the riot in his chest. Tony notices the shining star on Steve’s chest, and that cannot be, he thinks, as his selfishness drove him to hold on to the original, its gilt surface speckled with red.

“A man of iron. The name suits you fine.” Steve pulls down his brown, ragged hood, the wind mussing up locks interwoven with sunlight. “You’ve done your best, Tony.”

His best. Today, Tony might just believe it. “What happens now, then?” Even though he has an inkling, Tony still asks, squinting up at the too real, too bright illusion.

“Well, you can come with me. Unless,” a question described in the slight tilt of his head, “you’d rather stay a while longer.”

“I’d love to leave this hell behind…the new Sheriff and Ms. Barnes are more than capable, you should see ‘em,” Tony says.

Steve releases a hearty chuckle at the tail of his remark. “I don’t need to. I know they must be,” he agrees.

“But—done too much running—and,” Tony inhales, and then, little by little, exhales, “I should like to be the one who ends what you began, want to make sure. No more regrets, Sheriff.”

Steve nods in understanding. He bends down, and as he puts his helmet back in place, a bit of song, enveloped in a croon, softly dives into his ears, “‘ _then I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.’”_ Steve withdraws and walks back into sandy gales, his expression conveying a wealth of emotion.

In the interim, a man garbed in fire and gunmetal makes a final stand.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at an 1872 angsty stony fic.  
> Attempt cause I don't know much about anything besides this, wasn't planning on writing for this corner but the lack of 1872 fics breaks my already broken heart. 
> 
> Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to cry some more.


End file.
